You Were Amazing
by PaleoM
Summary: Everyone always writes about Sherlock using John's reaction to convince Moriarty's crew that he really did die. I wanted a returning Sherlock that had no idea John's reaction was real, that he was only now realising the true depth of John's suffering. This is a one shot ficlet of that scene


_Everyone always writes about Sherlock using John's reaction to convince Moriarty's crew that he really did die. I wanted a returning Sherlock that had no idea John's reaction was real, that he was only now realising the true depth of John's suffering. This is a one shot ficlet of that scene**  
**_

**You were amazing...**

Sherlock spun towards the living room door of 211b Baker Street as it opened. Months of anticipating this moment filled him with childlike glee at its final fruition.

John came through, looking somehow smaller than Sherlock remembered as he took in the pale hands,_ not been out much,_ that held the cane, _worrying, I wonder why that is? But, we can deal with that quickly enough_, the shirt not tucked in as neatly as usual, _dressed while distracted by some errant thought, unusual,_ eyes on the ground, _he looks like there is something here he doesn't want to see?_ In fact over all there was a slouch to his shoulders, _probably what makes him appear smaller_, the way he held himself, the way he looked just a little off his normal regimented self. _Overworked, not enough sleep. Maybe there is a flu epidemic, right time of year for it. Still we can deal with all that later. Today we celebrate._

John closed the door behind him, still oblivious to the room and it's single occupant watching him. As if suddenly aware of a presence, John raised his eyes suddenly and stumbled back against the closed door in shock as the cane tumbled from his hand, just as Sherlock shouted "Surprise," his arms out wide as he twirled in his long overcoat, radiant smile on his face. _Oh to be home, finally at home with John._ "It's finally over, John. I got them all."

Sherlock stepped forward and gripped John by his biceps, twirling once to deposit him back against the door,."You were amazing, John. A little over the top at times though, if I didn't know better I would have wondered just how close we were." He said with a laugh as he released John and spun away, arms raised in joyous rapture, "You were the epitome of brokenhearted, magnificent!" Sherlock turned back to John, still grinning as he pointed at him, "and that bit in the cemetery, genius!. I had no idea you could be so duplicitous, I'll be putting that to good use in the future."

"Wait, you heard what I said in the cemetery?" John asked, finger and thumb pushed tightly against each other as he reached out towards Sherlock. John used to do that when he was checking just how badly Sherlock had behaved. And that quaver in his voice, _barely contained rage_, also now that he thought about it, John was decidedly pale in the face, _more so than just keeping out of the sun._

"Yes," Sherlock answered, smile falling away as he took in all these details. _John was angry with him_. "I admit it was a bit of a risk, but I was very careful."

"Careful," John repeated slowly as he nodded, almost to himself. John took two steps away, moving further towards the back wall, fists clenched tight, before turning back to focus once more on Sherlock, "Well not that careful," he seethed as his volume grew, "seeing as how you jumped from a roof and died!" the last word shouted like a crescendo. He was staring at Sherlock, breathing heavily.

Sherlock had noticed John taking those steps without his cane, without even a glance at it lying neglected on the floor and had smirked smugly, ready to point it out but at John's outburst he kept quiet and instead took in the details in front of him.

Sherlock now realised that those two steps were taken to give John distance as he no longer trusted himself in close proximity to Sherlock, _doubted he could control himself not to lash out_. _Extreme anger, and yet there was still the contrasting paleness,_ the initial shock that Sherlock had at first put down to surprise, only now realising the level of surprise is must have been. "You thought I'd died."

"HmmHmm," John confirmed with a sharp nod of his head, too angry to talk. _Not good._

"John, I told you to watch, to not look away." Sherlock sighed in exasperation, "You've been with me for three years, did you not learn anything? Always observe, John. I mean I know you're not a genius but surely you saw, I told you; _John, keep your eyes on me_."

John's eyes were narrowed, angry slits, but they closed on his last words, a haunted look filled his face as he shook his head in silence, his bottom lip trembled before he pulled it in, biting it into stillness while Sherlock looked on. _Not acting. All this time, not acting. Real heartache... for him_, for Sherlock. His initial analysis of John realigned themselves and Sherlock suddenly realised that John had been suffering, a lot more than he'd thought and that he, Sherlock was the reason that John was pale and using his cane once more.

He felt an irrational guilt over that. That John had suffered to this degree because of him, even though he hadn't intended that, had actively tried to avoid it in fact, irrational to blame himself and yet there it was. Not enough for him to apologise, after all he hadn't done anything wrong, but the presence still confused him. Sherlock heard the admonishing voice of Mycroft in his head, "Caring is not an advantage," _is that true?_

Sherlock admitted to himself that he had always thought so, until John killed a man to save him, because he cared. And yet he remembers standing in that flat with Moriarty, he was angry but in control as always until he heard the quaver in John's voice as the journalist repeated the lies. The quaver that told Sherlock of a millisecond of doubt in John's mind, there and gone again in an instant but alive long enough to bring forth a rage in Sherlock. That Moriarty might convince John, he remembered screaming in panic at Moriarty to stop, just stop when what he meant was _not him, not John, don't take John away_. Caring had definitely not been an advantage, but then he wouldn't have been able to pull this off if Molly didn't care as much as she did. It seemed people caring about him worked, his caring about others did not, but with those select few who truly befriended him, _how could I not care?_.

John finally found enough control to answer, "I... I thought you were dead, Sherlock."

"Bit not good?" Sherlock asked, more scared now than he had been on the rooftop.

John flicked bright, angry eyes at him, sharp as flint.

"A lot not good," Sherlock quickly revised.

John gave a hollow laugh.

"I didn't, I mean I was surprised how good you were but I thought you knew, not the details, not the why, I knew you couldn't grasp that, but I thought you understood that I had to go."

John stumbled back towards the sofa, falling into it heavily, shaking his head, then he looked up, his eyes taking in Sherlock like he still didn't quite believe it.

"Rumours of my death were greatly exaggerated," Sherlock deadpanned in an attempt to lighten the mood. John shook his head softly, but the faintest of smiles tugged at his mouth and Sherlock's heart stopped hammering in his chest. He looked out the window, unsure what to say now but then a thought occurred to him and his curiosity overrode his intelligence. "So, what you said in the cemetery, you...er... you meant that?"

"I was taught not to speak ill of the dead," John responded, words tight, eyes narrowed.

"Right, yes...er...right," Sherlock was at a loss. Desperate not to upset John further, rethinking everything with this new evidence, desperate to ask questions he knew he couldn't ask, not with so much in the balance. He didn't understand people but he understood John and he knew this was big. Trouble was, he didn't understand him enough to know how to make it right. _Except, maybe...John always put so much stock in his humanity, or lack of it._

Sherlock moved to sit on the edge of the coffee table, knees a breath away from Johns, he dropped his masks and showed John his true self, the only man he ever trusted to see him down to his bare bones, "I'm sorry, John. I'm so sorry that you didn't know. I wish I could say I'd do things differently but he had a sniper, John. One trained on you, on Mrs Hudson and Lestrade. I wouldn't, couldn't, risk either one of you. If I didn't jump, they would pull the trigger. I had to, even without a plan, I would have jumped."

Sherlock paused as he swallowed emotion, not something he ever let himself feel, but for John, for this, he'd risk everything. "You don't understand, John. You never will. Someone like you, you befriend so easily, you have so much to offer. Me? I have nothing. Even now, I don't fully understand why you and Mrs Hudson put up with me. Lestrade, I can put that down to the cases I solve for him. Even Mrs Hudson I can put down to a degree of recompense for helping her with her husband. But you," Sherlock shook his head, "I never understood you. But I'm thankful for it. I never admit it but I am. Everyday I'm thankful to all of you, so thankful that I would give my life for any of you, to risk all three, to risk you. I couldn't do that. I thought I had shown you enough that you would understand. I'm sorry that you didn't."

John's face had traveled through shock, anger, shock again, falling into fondness and surprise to finish in contemplation.

Sherlock waited and watched with bated breath...


End file.
